From under the covers, the old man brings a headless doll. Lemmy’s favourite toy, Moomin. The day Lemmy brought it to him with the head snapped off, crying, I killed it, Yershey.
It’s a just a toy, Lemmy.
I killed Moomin, Yershey.
Toys can’t die, Lemmy, only people die.
Why does it got to get killed, Yershey? Big tears coming down his face. And Milly knew he wasn’t just talking about the toy anymore.
‘Jyrki.’ The old man pushing the doll into his chest. As Milly closes the door, the last thing he sees are his eyes. So wide and young you’d never know the mind behind them was gone.
They used to share Lemmy’s bedroom, but now Milly sleeps in their parents’ old room. The bunk beds are still there, though, with the seahorse comforter and the little happy-faced moon nightlight and if you didn’t know it you’d think some kid lived in here, not a grown man.
Milly stands in the doorway, about to toss the doll on the bed, but is stopped by one of his old posters on the wall. A picture of dozens of sailboats on the water, snow-capped mountains behind them – Come to Vancouver.
Vancoomer, Lemmy would say, the oh shine, Yershey.
Ocean, it’s one word, Lemmy.
And there was a picture pinned to the cork bulletin board, done in pencil crayon. Two round dots in a half moon, purple squiggles behind them. Jyrki and Lemmy in the ocean.
On his way out, he stops in his bedroom, goes into the closet and reaches high up to pull the Pystykorva off its hook. He bends down on one knee, pops the magazine, blows into it, replaces it and pulls the bolt back. The way Ukki showed him, out in the fields. Only taking him this far, never pulling the trigger. He makes sure the safety’s on and slings it over his shoulder.
He makes his way out to the two tarp-covered mounds sitting in the driveway. He yanks the sheet off the first one. The Barracuda. Coal black and polished like a razor. He slides into the driver’s seat and gets the key turned. Nothing. Turns again. More nothing. He took it out just last week and she was purring then.
When he slides back out he sees it. Gas cap off and a hose dangling. It clicks. The smell of gasoline at the tractor. Lemmy’d tried to drive off like Batman and probably spilled gas all over the place doing it.
Not going to waste time trying to siphon it back. Tarp’s off the second mound. The Beetle. Yellow paint and rust. Dragged by a crane out of the bottom of a ravine. They wanted to take it to the junkyard, but he said no. Washed out the stains, put in a new windshield, hammered the hood back into shape. Never could bring himself to repaint it. Yellow her favourite colour.
He tosses the Pystykorva and the doll on the passenger seat. It hasn’t been driven since, only started up once a year. But even with stale gas, the engine comes to life on the first try. Figures.
He drives the curving dirt road and rolls up to the edge of the highway. The asphalt stretching out in either direction. Right and he’s going into the city – going after Lemmy, going back to the farm, back to the plants, back to Ukki, back to his parents’ grave, back to tending and caring and bathing and feeding, back to going along the long flat line of life.
Then there’s left. On to the Soo, on to Thunder Bay, on to the badlands and on up the mountains and on and on to the coast. To the ocean. The farm behind him. Ukki, Lemmy, the sad dead city – everything far behind. Tomorrow and all the days on and on – his. Just like all the pictures he’d scissored out of magazines and stuck on the walls of his bedroom, like the ocean behind his eyelids. Finally his.
A snowflake. Just one, falling so slow. First of the year. He follows it down to the hood of the car where it melts. And then another. Second of the year and another, the third, and another, and more, losing count. Here comes another hard winter.
Or he could stay here. The car’ll be buried under snow and he can hibernate until spring.
The Pystykorva on the seat next to him. Running his hand down the oiled barrel, the wood stock, catching at the slash cut into the butt of the rifle. Ukki had carved one notch there, carved it so deep you could see daylight on the other side. He was no expert sniper. Not like Simo Häyhä, Ukki said, no valkoinen kuolema. No White Death – ei, ei, et sinä, not him. Carved this one notch down in some ditch over the ocean and then never moved on. Bringing that one notch with him over the ocean, into the house he built, and passing it on to his son, his grandsons, putting it into the fields around them. Milly stuck with this inheritance of the dead and dying.
He puts the car into gear and turns right. Going on, because sometimes that’s enough to get you through the day. Going gone.
The highway is a long black tongue all the way from Spanish, leading Milly down into the belly of the city.
He drives in a trance. The windshield wipers keeping the snow off, each slow pass pulling back another curtain in his brain. Lemmy hit by a transport out on the road. Lemmy freezing out in the forest. Lemmy attacked by wild animals. Lemmy slipping, hitting his head on a rock. Lemmy falling in the river. The many ends of Lemmy.
He’s just on the other side of McKerrow when he spots the ravine. Deep and wet like a mouth on his left side. He doesn’t know the exact spot. By the time Ukki took them there, the road crews had cleaned everything up, replaced the guardrails. He always figures he’ll feel something different on this patch of road.
He had packed a bag before he went to sleep that night. The decision finally made. He only told Lemmy, before he climbed into his bunk, I’ll come back for you.
He’d been lying in bed waiting, not knowing what for, when the phone rang. It rang and rang so much he was afraid Lemmy would wake up, but he slept through anything and Ukki’s hearing was already gone and mind going at that point. He let it ring until the sun came through the trees and then he walked out to the kitchen and picked it up and said hello like you would with any phone call and somebody told him how sorry she is to tell him.
When Mom came into their rooms earlier that night she kissed Lemmy first, and then she climbed up to his bunk and leaned in. Väinö yelling from the kitchen, ‘Let’s go!’ Her breath coming out sour with alcohol. This is what they would say later, that she was drunk, but he knew that wasn’t it. That’s not what sends a car through a guardrail at the speed of light. Take care of your brother was the last thing she said to him. It was the only powerful thing he’d ever known her to do.
He tries to imagine them in that moment, that split second of flight. If they felt free. If there had been room for a sliver of warmth. A look to say, So this is all we’ve been. Or if there was still only room for one final gush of violence. Take care of your brother, like he hadn’t been doing that since the day he was born. But he took it on like everything else. A pack mule, Dad used to say, Not good for anything else but carrying paska. Shit. He left his bag packed, just in case.
To him it just looks like another ravine and he never slows down, not even with the snow trying to claw him back.
Duncan’s waiting for him on the steps of the cenotaph in the park. His hood’s up, but a bit of green mohawk pokes out at the front like a horn. He’s watching the traffic and twitching all over the place.
‘You look like a junkie, Duncan.’
‘It’s fuckin cold, man.’
‘Let’s take a walk.’
They follow the path, through the trees, Duncan kicking at rocks with his combat boots. ‘So, um, how’s things out in Spanish?’
Milly looks at Duncan, giving him time to stop asking stupid questions. He steps over the legs of some drunk passed out under a bush.
They get to the playground and Milly drops himself into a swing. Duncan stands around, playing with the chain on his belt, looking one way, the other, anywhere except into Milly’s eyes. Like some kid dressed up for Halloween, too small for his costume.
‘Fuckin snow, eh?’ He tries a laugh that turns into a cough and then spits, getting some on the sleeve of his leather jacket. Wiping it on his pants. ‘So my guy was in this morning, busted for carrying – Josh, you
know Josh, right?’ Duncan’s eyes flick up, trying to read him, but he still gives the kid nothing. ‘Yeah, um, so Josh says these two cops come running in, saying they just found this body out on 17 and they got it in the back of their van.’
‘I already heard this.’
‘Yeah, I just thought you’d like the whole – ’
‘Is it him?’
‘I dunno, Milly.’
Milly jumps out of the swing and starts to cut across the lawn. Duncan jogs to catch up, trailing after.
‘Where’re you goin?’
‘To the station.’
‘What? What for?’
‘To get him.’
‘But – you can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s what I’m tryin to tell you, Milly – fuck. He’s gone.’
Milly stops and looks at Duncan, shoulders hunched up, the kid’s nose dripping snot. For a second, he’s about to reach out and crush his throat. He sees the bulge of Duncan’s larynx crawl as he swallows and his fingers imagine the shape, squeezing, squeezing, and the rattle that follows.
Instead he pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and tosses it. ‘Wipe your nose.’
Duncan dabs at his dripping nose, looking all apologetic. ‘Josh said that when they went out to the van to get him, he’d disappeared – somebody took him.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Duncan.’ He says it quiet, but he feels the edge come into his voice, the words walking a razor.
‘Uh, I heard this guy at the arcade – his friend – blabbing about this body in the trunk and – ’
‘Duncan.’ So quiet the kid’s eyes bulge, looking at Milly the way a lot of people look at him. Fear. The way they all used to look at Väinö. Because you never knew if he was going to cut you or kiss you. Or which one was worse.
‘Slim Slider. You know Slim – he worked for you a while back, right?’
‘Where?’
‘What’re you gonna do?’
He knows the stories they tell and he’s not sure if people are afraid of him because of what he’s done or what he’s capable of doing. ‘I’m going to talk to him.’
‘I dunno where he is – he was at the arcade and then – ’
‘When?’
‘Bout an hour ago.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘I dunno, man. He could be anywhere. He drives a red Dart – I know that.’
He nods. It’s a start. He walks over to the chain-link fence closing off the pool. The pit all dried up, filled with leaves. The seal sculpture at the far end. In the summer, water spouts from the seal’s mouth.
‘Uh, Milly?’ Duncan at his shoulder again. ‘I gotta get back.’
‘Yeah.’
But he doesn’t go anywhere and Milly can feel him twitching away beside him. ‘Just wondering if … ’ He trails off, wipes at his nose. ‘You bring, uh, anything with you?’
He turns his head, just enough for the kid to know that this is not the thing to ask. Disgusting to even think about business here. Now.
‘Yeah, cool. Be seeing you.’
He turns back to the pool and doesn’t even notice Duncan leave. Mom used to bring them here when they were kids. He grew out of it pretty quick, but even now he’d drive Lemmy in every weekend until the pool closed in September. If they got here when the right lifeguard was on, she wouldn’t say anything about Lemmy being too old or too big. He’d spend hours in the water, until his lips were blue, and even then he’d refuse to come out.
But in the water he was sleek and graceful. He shivered like an otter. All the awkwardness of his low, squat body released. He’d pop out spitting water. The oh shine, Yershey. In the water he was free.
He leaves the park and cuts across the street. Walking slow and letting the cars stop for him.
He pulls open the door to the Nickel Bin and ducks inside. He lets his eyes adjust – like a cave in here, wet and dark, and it’s only when the thick wall of day-old cigarette smoke hits him that he remembers where he is.
The bartender, Foisey, is leaning with his back against the bar, watching the television above him. Milly scans the rest of the place – pudgy guy with a moustache dressed in black setting up equipment on the small stage, off in the corner some other guy he maybe recognizes from the old days sleeping on a table. Nothing else but shadows. He walks up and takes a stool at the bar.
‘Tea. Please.’
Foisey gives him a glance and then comes back hard. He closes his mouth pretty quickly and tries to play it off with a nod. He goes to plug the kettle in. Milly pretends he can’t feel the stare reflected in the mirror behind the bar.
‘You know a kid named Slim?’
Foisey keeps his back to him. ‘Slim? Nope, sorry.’ But a twitch of his neck gives him away.
‘You see all that snow out there?’ It’s the guy with the moustache, sitting down next to him with a coffee. Milly gives him a quick nod, keeping his eyes on Foisey’s back. ‘The same every year – first snow and everybody forgets how to drive.’ He takes off his hat and rubs the sweat off his bald head, snapping the hat back down quick like something might escape. ‘Jyrki Myllarinen, right?’
Milly shifts his eyes, taking this guy in. Grey in his moustache, older than he looks. ‘Yeah.’
‘I used to teach your brother piano.’
Milly’s memory stirs – this guy, Bedard, one of Mom’s efforts, have Lemmy play piano because that’s what normal kids do. ‘Oh yeah.’ Palms and fingers fumbling together over some kind of handshake.
‘How’s he doin?’
‘Fine, fine.’
‘Good kid.’
‘Yeah, Lemmy’s great.’ Lemmy banging away on their piano. Practising, Mom called it. Always happy making a racket and he suddenly feels he owes this sad-eyed man something.
‘So, what’re you doing these days?’
‘Well, still playing. Playing here tonight. Big reunion concert.’
‘That right?’
‘Yep. Have to see who turns up. Big deal, I guess.’
‘Yeah.’ Trying to remember what band, what kind of music. ‘You guys were … something.’
‘Yeah, well … thanks, lad. We had our time, I guess. Toured Europe – parts of it anyway. Even played with Downchild at the El Mo once. Almost got that record contract. Almost.’ He takes a slurp of his coffee, holding it in his mouth all thoughtful, like it was the best kind of Scotch. ‘Guess there’s some dreams that never die, eh? Or you die with em.’
‘Yeah, guess so.’
Foisey puts a steaming cup of tea in front of him. He sips at it, the guy next to him sipping too – one of them dipping down while the other pulls back.
Milly thinks about that night, him in bed listening to his parents scream again, dropping down out of his bunk to pack his suitcase. Then the guardrails and the car flying. After that the bag stayed packed for seven years and all those dreams of the coast packed away with it and Lemmy saying, Tell me bout the oh shine, Yershey. Parcelling out those dreams, stretching them like taffy over seven years for them to live off the fumes. Seven years of bringing his coast, Milly’s coast, back to life over and over again. Passing on his dream like a disease to Lemmy until even that isn’t his anymore and then three days ago Lemmy says, Tell me bout the oh shine, Yershey and he says, What, Lemmy, what, what in the hell do you want to know?
Where’s the oh shine, Yershey?
Out west. In Vancouver.
Can we go to Vancoomer, Yershey?
No.
Why not?
Because.
Why not go?
Because we can’t.
Why not go? Why not?
We can’t, Lemmy.
Why not?
Because it’s gone.
No, Yershey.
And out comes the suitcase and he’s opening it and throwing clothes around and screaming at Lemmy the way his parents screamed at each other, the way he promised himself he’d never scre
am at anyone. It’s gone, you stupid retard. All dried up – the whole ocean – all of it. Gone, all gone. Like Mom and Dad and Ukki and me and everything. Gone.
And when he wakes, Lemmy and the suitcase are gone too.
‘Well, I gotta get back. Young minds to ruin.’ The stool shrieking as the guy pushes back, zipping up his leather jacket. He sticks out his hand for another awkward shake.
‘You should come by tonight – it’s gonna be just like old times.’
‘Maybe. I’ve got someone to take care of first.’ And when Bedard gives him a weird look, he forces his lips into a little smile and finishes, ‘My brother.’
Milly turns back to the bar, done talking. Behind him, he feels the guy take the hint and leave. Now just him and Foisey. Milly pictures his brother all laid out, his eyes closed, stuffed in the trunk of some car. Somebody driving who doesn’t give two shits about Lemmy. About where he belongs.
Foisey has his back turned again, polishing beer glasses like the world depends on it. Milly clears his throat. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘Who?’
‘Where,’ taking a sip, slowing this down to make sure he’s heard, ‘can I find him?’
‘Listen, man, I don’t know the kid.’
Milly watches Foisey in the mirror as he dips his teabag in and out of the mug, letting the silence sit, smelling the stink of the other man’s nerves.
‘Where can I find him?’
‘What the fuck d’you want with him anyway?’
Milly feels the words come up from his gut, flopping heavy onto the bar for Foisey to see. ‘Where can I find him?’
The glass Foisey is polishing breaks and he breathes in sharply, grabbing at his hand. ‘Look – I know his mother. She works over at that cop diner on Larch.’ He wraps the towel around his hand.
Milly takes one final sip and puts a dollar bill on the counter. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
As Milly pushes through the door he bumps into someone coming in. A big fella, half a foot taller than him. Head like a brick. Familiar. Wiping blood off his face with a sleeve. Just a bump, an inch of skin, and normally he’d give this guy a look to fuck off, but that inch gives him a chill like his grave’s been trampled all over. Or maybe it’s just this day he’s stepping out into. This day that started three days ago with Lemmy walking off.
The City Still Breathing Page 5